<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Heart Tree by oswiin</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721428">The Heart Tree</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin'>oswiin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arya is a little older, But Not Much, F/M, These adorable dorks, but probs not, cuteness, i might do more chapters later if it works, just fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:54:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,003</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721428</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Arya Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Jonrya Valentines Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Heart Tree</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clash of swords permeated the air… or it would, if the young prince and his lordling opponent were allowed the use of true steel. Ser Rodrick was adamant, however, and Robb and Joffrey were consigned to wood and dulled blades. Arya Stark found it all terribly dreary; it’s bad enough they couldn’t use real metal, but Robb was warned not to hurt the little brat, so he wasn’t even trying. If this was in a real battle, she thought, they both would’ve been killed.</p><p>Nymeria, one of the wolf pups her brothers had saved from the cold, lapped at her master’s heels. Arya tried to silence her. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and her lady mother would be furious if she found out. Jon had brought her here; he was her half-brother, but he could always tell when she was upset, and knew just how to make her smile.</p><p>Jon loved making her smile. The Starks were a close pack, but Jon was the outsider. Arya was the only one who said otherwise, and he loved her for it. They looked like each other, like their father; the Stark look. They both loved their siblings, but, perhaps apart from Robb, they all seemed more Tully than Stark. Being a Northerner was an ancient boast, and it made them both proud to be some of the few who still worshipped in the woods, not a sept.</p><p>He watched her try to quiet that wild wolf pup of hers, but the yapping only got worse when she encountered Ghost and they started bouncing around each other with excitement. Eventually, she gave up, and Jon was warmed by her attempt at a frown.</p><p>“I’ll get her trained eventually.” Jon admired her determination, but Arya had always been that way. She grinned at him, a smile that reached her eyes. “I suppose she’d be easier to train than a dragon.” Now it was Jon’s turn to laugh. Her mind was always wandering like that, always inquisitive. She came out with the most interesting things.</p><p>“I suppose,” he replied, mussing her hair like only he was allowed. “Though, I don’t think we’ll ever find out.” Arya screwed up her face at that, her nose wrinkling in the middle, just like a wolf baring its teeth. Though this girl looked a lot less threatening.</p><p>“I would’ve liked to be a dragonrider.” Not for the first time, Jon could see his sister was somewhere else, amongst the clouds, or the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria. She was a proud Stark, a Northerner through and through, at one with the Old Gods. But even he could admit that the idea of riding a dragon was more exhilarating than anything else he could imagine. “I could’ve ridden a bigger beast than anyone, like Balerion the Black Dread, or Vhagar, Queen Visenya’s mount.”</p><p>“You? Riding Balerion? But you’re so skinny, and small.” He poked and pinched his sister until she giggled so hard, she nearly fell from the wall they were perched on and into the hay below. Jon had to catch her.</p><p>“I can ride a horse better than anyone. What would be so different with a dragon?” Jon conceded the point, and the proud smirk she wore made him smile. She could always make him smile.</p><p>“I want to fight the bastard.” The call drew Arya and Jon’s attention back to the practice yard, where the git Prince Joffrey stood, pointing his blunted steel in Jon’s direction. Ser Rodrik made as many excuses and protestations as he could, but Robb was grinning, Theon and Joffrey were smirking, and Jon jumped down into the yard and picked up a sword.</p><p>“I’ll fight you,” he said, and Ser Rodrik was silenced, “and I’ll win.” That wiped the smile of Joffrey’s face, and Jon turned back to Arya to see if she was watching, to see if she had laughed. She was giggling uncontrollably, and that just made Joffrey scowl more. “You should go now, little sister,” Jon said. “The Septa will be waiting.” </p><p>She narrowed her eyes, but nodded. The practice began, and Arya stayed long enough to watch Joffrey fall on his arse a few times, then sprinted away, Nymeria at her heels. In her room, it was worse than Jon had imagined. It wasn’t just Septa Mordane. It was her mother.</p><hr/><p>Jon found her in her bedroom, knees drawn up to her face, weeping silently on the cold, stone floor. He rushed to her side and sat beside her, and waited for her to look up. Her grey eyes were wet when she did, but she said nothing. There was nothing to say.</p><p>Life was not fair. They both knew that. Instead, he had another idea.</p><p>“Hey,” he said, elbowing her lightly to get her attention, “why don’t we get out of here?” Her grey eyes lit up, and Arya’s crooked smile always managed to brighten Jon's mood. “I think we left our sticks in the Godswood.” She couldn't help but beam at the thought.</p><p>“Thank the Gods Ser Rodrik doesn’t know,” she said breathlessly as they ran for the wood, darting through halls and avoiding servants and Lannisters alike. “He’d cuff us if he saw our blades just lying about.”</p><p>They slowed as they reached the gated wood, catching their breath in the brisk air. Their cheeks were ruddy, their eyes bright with excitement, and their wolves padded along behind. Inside, the ground was littered with red leaves and the lightest dusting of summer snows, but the pools were always warm. Beneath the heart tree, with it’s carved, sad face and bleeding gaze, their stick swords lay abandoned, until Arya ran forward and snatched them up.</p><p>Arya spun the makeshift blade in her hands, and Jon watched her for a moment as he  picked up his own. The Northern braids her hair had been in that morning had fallen to disarray, and now her brown locks fell to her waist in a tangled mess. The hem of her dress was wet from the snow, and he knew she would receive a bollocking for it later. For now, though, they didn’t care.</p><p>Jon was only eighteen, Arya was almost thirteen, but sometimes she felt much older. Marriage proposals had started pouring in two years ago, and Jon hated it every time one arrived, and worse their father actually considered them. In that time, only two had traveled so far North to meet her, and she had driven them off almost as quickly as they arrived. In the same time, Sansa had nearly been engaged so many times they almost lost count. She still was, but no-one expected that to last now that the prince had arrived.</p><p>Jon approached her, sword in hand, and realised she was crying again. The stick fell from his grasp and bent down so he was at her eye-level. “What is it, Arya? What’s wrong?” She sniffled and wiped the tears away with his thumb. She grabbed his had to keep it there.</p><p>“Am I a bastard, Jon?” she finally said, refusing to meet his gaze. “Sansa says so, and I don’t look like anyone but you and father.” Jon knew she was right; all their siblings looked like Tullys, and only they looked like Starks, with brown hair and grey eyes, long faces that matched those ancient statues of the Kings of Winter.</p><p>“I don’t care what Sansa says,” he answered. “She’s a liar. You are Arya, of House Stark. You’re not a Snow. Never forget that. I’m the only bastard here.” She let Jon’s hand drop from her face, but held on it and rubbed her thumb across his. “Come,” he said, picking up their swords again.</p><p>They battled as fiercely as if it were real, though Arya was not as good as him, and it was easy to block her. “You’re not a bastard,” she said. “You’re my brother.” She scrunched up her face as if the thought was entirely ridiculous. When she smiled, though, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “Maybe I could marry you. Then you could be a Stark too,” she declared, and the shock of it stopped Jon in his tracks, allowing Arya to knock the sword from his hand.</p><p>Jon realised he was staring and scrambled to pick up his sword. “You can’t marry me, Arya.” They got back to their swordplay, but his mind was still elsewhere. He imagined Arya in a wedding gown, in his bed, and though he tried not to, the thought made him smile.</p><p>“Yes, I can,” she said stubbornly. “We can be like Aegon and his sisters. I’ll be Visenya!” Despite how much she had grown up, sometimes she still acted like an excited child. Jon loved that about her. “She rode a Vhagar and fought with a Valyrian steel sword called Dark Sister. We could be just like them.”</p><p>“Oh no, sis,” he said, as if she had made a mistake and he had to correct her, “you should be Rhaenys.” Arya furrowed her brow and frowned, as if she was asking why. “Aegon loved her most, after all. You know it is said that Aegon married Visenya out of duty, but Rhaenys out of desire.”</p><p>“I know that,” she said firmly, “but Visenya was a warrior, and a queen. I heard she was a sorceress.” Her eyes glistened in the afternoon sun, and a light flurry of snow began to fall, dusting her hair with a frosty crown.</p><p>“Rhaenys could fight as well as her siblings,” he countered. “She rode a dragon, too. Though she was not so much a commander, neither are you. You’re so skinny, you could barely even lift a greatsword, let alone fight with one.” For that, she hit him on the arm with her stick, and Jon once again lost his grip on his. The blow stung, but he found himself grinning like an idiot.</p><p>“Fine,” she conceded, stepping towards him in peace, “I’ll be Rhaenys. But, you won’t marry anyone else, will you? You won’t find a Visenya?” She bit her lip nervously, and Jon wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and place a kiss on her head. So, he did. She was warm, despite the weather, and their breath frosted in the cold air.</p><p>“Never,” he whispered. “There could never be anyone for me but you, Arya.”</p><p>“There could never be anyone for me but you,” she repeated into his chest. She looked up at him and he saw her cheeks were red, and her dark eyes, <em> their eyes </em>, were brighter than ever. Neither one made a move to part, though their faces were much closer than any siblings’ should be. And when she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips, Jon felt like he ought to run.</p><p>He didn’t.</p><p>He let the kiss linger, enjoying the warm feeling that spread through him at the contact. It was barely more than a peck, but something about it still felt forbidden. When they finally parted, Arya stared at him for a moment. She licked her lips, and Jon did the same, and in an instant she was off, running back to the keep, leaving Jon alone with the gods.</p><p>He took a breath to steady himself, and chastise himself for letting it happen. But, as much as he wanted to feel bad, he couldn’t. It had felt so <em> right </em>, and that might have been the worst thing. When he turned, he was confronted with the weirwood’s haunting face, dried sap leaking from the eyes like blood. The Old Gods were certainly judging him for this, as Lord Eddard would if he heard.</p><p>But still, his thoughts drifted to Arya in a wedding dress, a grey cloak over her shoulders. Every time a proposal arrived, that thought made him red with anger, but now he was calm. Now, he imagined himself as the groom.</p><p>And what could be more wonderful than that?</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>